A Quiet One
by LaceyBird
Summary: "Ain't there some sort'a rule against this, Sir?" Molly asked, and there was that heat again, spreading up her neck, flooding her cheeks, and she could feel the palms of her hands begin to dampen at the anticipation of what he was suggesting.


**AN: Hello everyone. I had part of this stuck in my head since Christmas Eve, but I haven't really had the time to sit and work it out, until today – when I** _ **made**_ **the time (at 9pm!).**

 **It's not the best, and I apologise. It really made me work (hard!) for it!**

 **First draft, unbeta'd, so all mistakes are (proudly) my own!**

 **I hope you all had a lovely Christmas, and proceed to have a wonderful New Year!**

 **I wish you all Health, Wealth and Happiness**

 **Please read and review! I read every single one, and they make me smile (the good ones, of course!)**

 **Lacey.**

 **Xox**

* * *

 **A Quiet One…**

"Ow!" Molly exclaimed as she hit the floor and her elbow collided with one of the metal bars of the collapsible camp bed. She rubbed at the throbbing joint, brow furrowed as she tossed an accusatory glare over her shoulder at the capsized cot, before glancing back up at the small lamp hanging from a small metal hook from the centre fixing of the tents roof. The batteries had just died, and she had been trying to reach it by standing on the edge of the lightweight bedframe, but it had tipped, sending her to the ground with a loud thud. Molly sighed as she pushed herself to her feet, fingers still kneading the skin that was sure to bruise. She turned to right the upturned frame as the canvas door moved slightly and Captain James' head popped through the opening.

"Everything okay in here, Dawes?" he asked, concern narrowing his eyes slightly as his gaze travelled over the platoon's medic and the cot on its side in her hands. Molly almost rolled her eyes.

"Fine, Sir," she said as she straightened up, and there was a hint of annoyance that wasn't aimed at Captain James. She dropped the bed frame, pushed it back against the tent wall with her shin.

Captain James stepped into the medic tent anyway.

"I heard you…"

"Yeah, I fell off the bloody bed, didn't I," she almost snapped. She took a breath, a deep one to calm the frustration bubbling away inside, and then pointed up to the dangling lamp. "I can't reach it."

Captain James' gaze followed Molly's direction, and his brows pulled together thoughtfully. "Is there something wrong with the electricity?"

Molly shook her head. "No, I just…I like _that_ light."

Captain James shook his head, bewildered, before crossing the small distance and reaching up, easily, to unhook the dead lantern. He held it out for Molly to take, and she could see he was trying to keep the amusement from his face. Trying, but mostly failing.

"Thank you, Sir," she said, anyway, as she took the lamp, grateful that she didn't have to attempt anymore acrobatics to retrieve it. She could feel his eyes on her as she crossed the small room, heading for the metal cabinet stood in the corner, to the right of the treatment room entrance.

"When it was just me, Mum and Dad, we used to go camping every Summer. But for some reason, I wouldn't go unless we took this bleedin' light," she answered his inquisitive look even if he didn't voice the question. She smiled at the sentiment as she plucked a pack of batteries from the top drawer. "So Mum thought I'd want it with me out here."

"That was very thoughtful of her," Captain James said from behind her, the corners of his mouth pulling slightly.

"Yeah, well Mum's a bit of a soft fool," she said over her shoulder, an eyebrow playfully lifting as she used the phrase James had thought was an insult. "Unlike my dad; he's just a knob."

Captain James chuckled softly, the airy sound bouncing off the thin walls around them. In the confines of the medic tent, it seemed a private melody; one that the other soldiers in the platoon didn't get the luxury of hearing.

Molly popped the new batteries into the base of the camping lantern and tossed the duds into the small bin under the metal desk, before replacing the battery cover.

"So," Capt. James said. "Not in the partying mood, then?"

Molly glanced at him then, her eyes dropping to the red, faded graphic tee shirt he was wearing with his standard camo fatigues – the closest to civilian clothes he could get whilst on duty – and though she was accustomed to the green and beige trousers, she hadn't seen him in anything as _normal_ as the red tee, and it made him look…different. She swallowed and shook her head, aware of the warmth spreading up her neck and over her cheeks as she wondered if she'd been staring for a second too long.

"Nah, I prefer the peace and quiet in 'ere, Sir," she answered, pulling her gaze away. "Don't get much of it at 'ome." She flicked the power switch on the lamp, and a warm, orange glow gently illuminated the room.

"Right, you have a rather large family," Captain James said, and Molly's brow dipped as she turned to face him. "I read your file," he answered her puzzlement.

"Oh, 'course you did," she said, and she could feel her cheeks warm slightly again. "You don't get five minutes to yourself without one of the little bleeders yelling for ya." She crossed the small room to stand before him, the lamp clutched in both hands as she holds it between their bodies. "Do you mind?" Her eyes flicked to the hook and back to his again. He rolled his eyes playfully, before taking the light and reaching above them to hang it up, and she caught a subtle note of a woody and smoky and manly aromaas he moved. It was entirely delicious and stirred something in the pit of her stomach.

"Besides," Molly continued conversationally, watching as Captain James delicately hooked the light up, releasing it gently as if he was afraid it might fall and break, or something. "Proud Mary always said it was bad luck to see in the New Year without a fella to snog, and I ain't about to kiss any of those muppets out there." She nodded toward the tent entrance, where the buzz of the celebrating Platoon's chatter and laughter filtered through on the evening breeze. "They'll just have to crack on with each other."

"Oh, I dunno, Dawes; you could probably use all the luck you can get our here," he joked, the corners of his eyes creasing softly as his mouth pulled into a grin.

"I think I'll take my chances, Sir," Molly replied, mirroring his expression. Captain James seemed to consider her for a moment, and then he sobered a little and nodded.

"Actually, that's probably for the best. I think I just heard Mansfield Mike suggest a game of strip poker," he said, frowning slightly, his thumb pointing over his shoulder to the tent's entrance.

They stood quietly, listening to the others as they sat around the small make-shift barbeque, talking and laughing, high on the atmosphere. Sure enough, Molly heard another mention of playing the risqué game, and she laughed.

"God, I am _not_ stepping out there for anything," she joked, before checking the watch secured on her wrist; a Christmas gift from her eldest sister.

"Mind if I wait out with you, Dawes? Just until midnight has passed and I can send those cockwombles to bed?"

"Strip poker not your thing then, Sir?" she teased, before turning and dropping onto the cot that had turned on her before. Her feet ached and head throbbed. It had been a long day today, with the number of patrols doubled because of the festive season. Christianity was not a welcome religion in Afghanistan, especially amongst the Taliban, so they'd wanted to make sure nothing kicked off and those that wanted to celebrate could do so peacefully and without fear of repercussions.

"Not since my uni days," Captain James smirked as he dropped down onto the cot next to Dawes, their shoulders brushing. "So what about me, then?" he asked, changing the subject as if he was trying to distract her from his confession. "Will I be cursed too?"

"I dunno, actually. Think it's different for geezers," she replied, pondering the question. "But I'm sure if you asked Smurf nicely…"

"Not a chance in Hell, Dawes."

"Well," she said, shrugging her shoulders a little, "I guess that's the whole platoon fucked then, Sir. Can't have a jinxed medic _and_ Captain. I think we'd better just sit our arses down at the FOB until, at least, the end of our tour, just to be safe."

"The end of our tour?"

" _At_ _least_."

"Really?"

Molly nodded, her expression serious. "Yes, Sir. Medic's orders."

"Okay, let's just think about this; be strategic for a moment," Captain James said, shifting on the taut canvas beneath the taffeta sleeping bag to face Dawes a little better.

"Sir?"

"I'm a man. You're a woman. We're seeing in the New Year together…"

"Ain't there some sort'a rule against this, Sir?" Molly asked, and there was that heat again, spreading up her neck, flooding her cheeks, and she can feel the palms of her hands begin to dampen at the anticipation of what he was suggesting.

"They allow for extenuating circumstances, Dawes. Mistletoe, The New Year, a comrade's last dying wish…"

"Oh, charmin'," Molly scoffed.

"It's a peck on the cheek; the same as I'd give my Mother. It's a win, win situation; No cursed medic, no cursed Captain, and we make it home by Easter."

Molly laughed, and she could see he was struggling to hide his amusement from his face, too. It's not as if they hadn't already done this; on Christmas Day, everyone had taken their turn to wish her a Merry Christmas, give her a small hand drawn card, and a quick kiss on the cheek. It was platonic; a friendly gesture. So why was her heart stammering in her chest, making her feel like a fifteen year old dared to make-out with her crush.

"Fine," she sighed, faking agitation. "If it's for the sake of our men…"

"It is."

"And we'd be doing it solely for their welfare…" Molly glanced over at the tent door as the chant of a countdown sounded from the centre of the FOB, where all her fellow soldiers were celebrating together.

 _10…9…8…_

Captain James nodded earnestly. "Yes."

Molly laughed again, before shaking her head and standing up. "You're such a goof, Sir."

He grinned, as he got to his feet, turned to face her. "For Queen and Country, Dawesy!"

 _7…6…5…_

"Okay….wait…are we going left, or right?"

"What?"

 _4…3…2…_

"We'll go right," she said, quickly, waving a hand to dismiss any confusion.

 _1._

He dipped right, and she tilted left, and before they could correct themselves, his lips breifly pressed against hers.

 _Shit._

 _Fuck._

 _Shit._

She stopped breathing, gaze dropping to his mouth – the mouth that had _just_ sparked against hers, and his breaths were coming in shallow, barely audible gasps, as if he was struggling to breathe, too. He hesitated, and she lifted her eyes up to meet smouldering, burnished pupils that held onto her gaze, and she wondered why the Hell he was still standing so close, and why the Hell she didn't want him to step away. She finally exhaled, shakily, unsteadily, and his eyes flicked down to her parted lips. When he did move, it was deliciously, tortuously slow – like you see in the old movies – and she could feel the soft wisp of air as he released a shaky breath.

And then his mouth was grazing hers again, delicately pressing against her for a second, as if testing it out, waiting for her approval, her permission, and she clearly had no control over her body because it arched into him, and she was opening her mouth slightly; her lips sliding against his slowly, tenderly.

He exhaled, hard and loud, and then he was kissing her. _Really_ kissing her.

One arm snaked around her waist, hand splayed at her back, pulling her into him, as the other slide up over her neck, into her hair, cupping the back of her head. She'd always expected his palms to be rough, calloused, dry and cracked, but his touch was as smooth as silk, the stroke of a feather, leaving a trail of heated goosebumps in its wake.

His lips moved against hers, and he tugged gently as he pulled away, and she thought she may have moaned, but then his mouth was back on her, silencing her, kissing her upper lip, nipping at her lower, opening his mouth against hers.

She could taste him; an exquisite mix of coffee and mince pies and just him.

His lips were supple, moist, despite the current climate, and his chin was rough from two-day-old stubble. His hand was large against the back of her head, his hold firm and confident, and then his tongue brushed hers, briefly, testing, before she allowed him to slide in silkily and smoothly.

She thought she was going to lose herself in him.

She lifted her hand up, her nervous fingers tentatively traced the straight edge of his sandpaper jaw, followed the curve of his throat, before coming to rest against his neck. She could feel the thrum of his racing pulse beneath her palm.

The sudden eruption of Auld Lang Syne filled the night air; the men sang loudly and out of tune, merry on the atmosphere in camp.

Captain James stopped, but he didn't move away, didn't drop his hand from her hair. He shifted slightly, just enough for each exhale to caress her cheek as he tried to catch his breath, for his lips to brush her flushed skin as he swallowed, thickly. Finally, he pulled back, his hand falling from her tresses, and there was something new burning in his eyes when he looked at her; something that made her stomach flutter and heart stammer. Something inexplicably tantalising.

"Happy New Year, Dawes," he breathes, his voice rough, deep.

"Ha-Happy New Year, Boss," she returned, her voice barely above a whisper as her fingers traced over her swollen lips.

His gaze dropped to her mouth again, his eyes lingering a moment too long, and a part of her wondered if he was going to kiss her again.

But then he was turning on his heel and disappearing out of the tent, leaving her alone with a racing heart and the taste of his tongue.

* * *

 **Happy New Year!**

 **ps. The timeline for OG is very inconsistent throughout s1, so I am writing this as if they began their tour in (early) October, as stated in episode1...meaning they're almost halfway through by NY. :)**


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